


Spring Fortune

by SharkAria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-War for the Dawn, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkAria/pseuds/SharkAria
Summary: Spring has come to Winterfell, but food supplies are low.  Sandor finds enough to feed the whole castle.  Sansa thanks him.





	Spring Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa is always 18+ in all of my stories, including this one.
> 
> This will probably be put into a series of post-war one-shots.

“Ten days.” Sansa’s words echoed in the vast, empty pantry as she pointed to the cask of moldy grain. “With the cook using that for gruel, and Marei stripping the library of its book bindings, and Rodrik’s good fortune catching those rats --” she leaned her thin frame against the wall, and the skirts of her drab brown dress snagged against the rough stones. Her face appeared sallow in the weak light that streamed through the doorway. “Kindly give me a moment. Another spell. You understand.”

Sandor understood. He was starving, just like Sansa and the remaining Winterfell residents who had survived the War for the Dawn, and was long-accustomed to the spinning that accompanied the condition. Stepping away from her, he suppressed the urge to break open the last cask and shovel the grain, uncooked, into his watering mouth.

Sansa cleared her throat and righted herself gingerly. Her voice was weak as she continued, “As I was saying, between our foragers, our hunter, and this meager supply of grain, we have ten days before we run out of food. Perhaps twelve, if we boil the last of the saddle leather.”

“A fortnight, then, before people start dying,” Sandor added. He scratched at his face where the fresh burn blisters had finally turned to scabs. “What of the ravens?” 

Sansa shook her head and grimaced. 

They should have killed and cooked the birds, like Sandor had advised, but Sansa had ordered that they be sent to the Northern strongholds to seek survivors. “So that’s White Harbor, Hornwood, Last Hearth, Torrhen’s Square -- not to mention the Dreadfort, of course --”

“Leveled to their foundations, or worse. Yes.” She closed her eyes. “Would that the dragons had left something standing.”

“Or that the wights had left a field unfrozen.” 

Sansa placed her gloved hand on the fur cuff of Sandor’s sleeve, a gesture that once would have sent his heart soaring, back when hunger wasn’t his only thought, every moment of every day. “I believe there may be one last hope,” she said. “The freefolk orphans who arrived a few days ago --”

“More empty bellies,” Sandor interrupted.

Sansa ignored his words. “Those children lived through the worst of the Last Battle in the ruins of Deepwood Motte. They don’t speak the Common Tongue fluently, but they were clear about having fed themselves from the abandoned food stores there.”

“And you think there’s something left for us?”

Sansa did not respond immediately. She led Sandor outdoors, into the yard next to the kitchen entrance. Wan sunlight filtered through the clouds and highlighted the hollowness of her cheeks. “If there’s not, we’ll all die.”

Now it was Sandor’s turn to go silent. He gazed across the yard. Only those few with inordinate strength and fortitude worked outside in the icy spring morning. At the blacksmith’s shed, a young wildling with one eye inexpertly banged away at a spear that Sandor had seen him use to skewer countless wights. Beside a ditch, a stocky kitchen wench scoured chamber pots; during the Last Battle, Sandor had watched her push an attacking White Walker into a bonfire with her bare hands. Near the firepit, three grizzled soldiers warmed their hands and shuffled their feet; Sandor had fought with them in a ragged sortee to protect the injured Rhaegal as the undead had advanced. Sandor’s face ached as he remembered the dragon’s firebreath streaming forth to scorch the army.

Sandor’s eyes returned to Sansa. As ice and fire had lit up the skies, the Lady of Winterfell had led the survivors into the crypts. Sandor had expected to join the dead there, but because of Sansa’s quick thinking, he and everyone else had lived to see the dawn. 

“You saved us all, and the North,” he said quietly. “You deserve more than to die with a belly full of saddle leather.”

“We all do,” she responded, her voice sharp. 

He scoffed weakly. “I deserve far less than what I have.” When he had arrived at Winterfell, Sansa could have executed him for Blackwater, but instead she had placed her trust in him, called him by his given name, kept his counsel. It was less than he wanted from her, but far more than he had earned. 

“It’s a fool’s errand, just like the ravens,” Sandor told her. “But I’ll form a party, take the strongest with me.” He looked around the yard at his unsuspecting recruits. “We’ll bring handcarts and search the ruins and return with anything that’s edible.” _Or we’ll all perish, and you’ll have five fewer mouths to feed,_ he thought darkly.

Sansa surely knew what he was thinking, for she grasped his arm and nodded. Her eyes glistened as she told him, “I’ll pray for your safe return.”

*_*_*_*_*_*

A fortnight later, Sandor and his one-eyed wildling and strong kitchen wench and three grizzled soldiers returned to Winterfell, their carts overloaded with the nearly untouched food stores of Deepwood Motte. The ale was almost rancid, the grain mildewy, the cheese dried out, the meat half-eaten by rodents, the root vegetables shriveled, but it was a bounty more sumptuous than Sandor or anyone else had seen since the Mother of Dragons had crossed the Narrow Sea. 

Winterfell’s steward and the wildling orphans unloaded the carts with grins on their faces and tears in their eyes. Sandor reported that there was even more food to be had if others would fetch it, and a second recovery party set out with fresh recruits. A refugee who had once fought for Stannis lit a torch and said a prayer of thanks to the Lord of Light, and the pair of Silent Sisters who had spent the war under Stark protection put their hands over Sandor’s heart and offered him wordless blessings.

That evening, the cook served a gummy porridge and fried venison and wrinkly roasted beets to the ravenous Winterfell residents. The modest meal had the air of a royal wedding feast. Children ran about the great hall with rosy, greasy faces, and their mothers cried as they tore at the meat. Two ladies-in-waiting unearthed a lyre and a lute and began playing, and men began warbling along to songs they recalled from before the war. 

Sandor, for his part, was the hero of the night. The steward seated him at the high table, the cook smothered his stringy meat in lumpy gravy, and the servants poured him ale that wasn’t watered down. 

For the first time in his life, he knew he deserved all of the recognition.

Also for the first time in Sandor's life, women were throwing themselves at him. As he scarfed down a second helping of porridge, the steward's green-eyed daughter ran her fingers down his tunic and whispered a filthy invitation into the nub of his burned ear. As he sauntered between trestle tables to step outside for a quick piss, a freckled chambermaid brushed her hip against his breeches and grinned up at him through black eyelashes. When he returned inside and found that the hall had erupted into drunken dancing, a hedge knight’s curly-haired wife grabbed his hand and stuffed it down the front of her bodice. Wildling refugees and war widows alike wanted his attention.

“Winterfell celebrates you, Sandor,” Sansa called over the music, slipping alongside him and gesturing to a servant to pour more ale into his empty horn. “Your fool's errand has saved us all.”

“You’re the one who learned about the food in the first place,” Sandor demurred, leaning down so that Sansa could hear his words. Her heavy, spicy perfume wafted up to him, and he sipped from his horn and his head swam with her scent.

She shifted closer to him, and the hem of her green velvet gown rustled against his boots. “You deserve a reward,” she murmured close to his ear as the singers finished their tune.

Sandor turned to face her and stared at her lips. Was he imagining it, or was the corner of her mouth pulling upward? _An invitation?_ he wondered. “And what is my reward?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice flat.

She gazed at him steadily. “Name it,” she replied, “and you shall have it.”

In his dark chamber, alone on the cold winter nights, Sandor had fantasized that someday Sansa would approach him for more than just his advice, would give him permission to -- to what? He had never gotten that far; he hadn’t dared to think further. He hadn’t deserved even the guarded respect she gave him.

He had finally earned it. Tonight, he _would_ claim his reward.

But then the musicians lit up the room with a new melody, and young Lord Artos Flint staggered up to Sansa to beg for a dance, and she curtseyed and accepted and didn’t so much as glance back in Sandor’s direction.

Sandor watched Sansa swirl across the floor with the rest of the celebrating survivors. He caught her looking at him as she slid up from a bow, and he smirked at her, and even from this distance he could see the blush bloom on her cheeks.

*_*_*_*_*

Sandor sat alone at the end of the high table, ignoring the sleepy scullions cleaning up around him. He had brushed off the last of the many women who had lingered beside him, and now he poured himself a horn of water and waited. 

The group that had accompanied him to Deepwood Motte had left to sleep or seek entertainment in private, as had most of the rest of the castlefolk. A few knights remained at a trestle table, picking at bones and flirting with a pair of kitchen wenches. Their laughter rang out in the near empty hall.

Sansa glided up the aisle between the tables, the cook and the steward trailing behind her as she directed them how to ration the food in the coming weeks. When she reached the end of the high table opposite Sandor’s seat, she dismissed her workers and sank into her Warden’s chair. Her eyes met Sandor’s, and she scratched the armrest lazily.

 _I know what is going to happen next, and so do you, Sansa,_ Sandor thought. He stared at her and felt a different hunger - a hunger he had ignored far too long.

“I must visit the godswood while the moon is high, to thank the old gods for our good fortune,” Sansa announced, as if replying to Sandor's unspoken words. 

One of the knights, a lean Riverlander who had lost an arm during the Last Battle, swung his legs out around the bench. “I’ll go with you, my lady,” he volunteered.

Sandor whipped around and glared at the young fighter.

“You are very kind,” Sansa said, grace overflowing in her tone. “But Sandor Clegane has already agreed to accompany me.” 

The knight grinned and bowed, clearly relieved that he would be allowed to remain indoors with his friends.

Sandor stood, and the chair legs squawked against the stone floor. His legs felt heavy as he strode the length of the table.

As Sansa rose and slipped her wrist into the crook of Sandor’s elbow, she studied him with that same unwavering gaze from earlier in the evening. “Shall we walk through the courtyard?” she suggested.

“As my lady wishes,” Sandor said, his voice as sharp as a blade. 

Servants brought their fur lined cloaks from the back of the room and wrapped them around their shoulders. Then Sandor walked with Sansa down the aisle, past the guard at the door, and out into the frigid courtyard. For what seemed like several minutes, the sound of their boots crunching across the frosty gravel provided the only distraction from Sandor’s tangled thoughts.

As they passed the Great Keep, Sansa stopped. She looked up into the black sky, then down to Sandor’s face. “Perhaps we should wait until morning to give thanks to the gods, with the sun lighting our way to the weirwood.”

Sandor understood. He swallowed and said hoarsely, “I’ll escort you to your chambers.”

Sansa smiled lightly. “Yes, please do.”

Sansa nodded to the Great Keep’s entry guard, who pushed open the door and let them both pass. Their footsteps echoed on the steps up to her suite, and Sandor’s heart thumped in his chest. 

As they entered Sansa's room, a chambermaid rose from a pallet near the hearth. The girl rubbed her face and covered a yawn, but jerked fully awake as she noticed Sandor standing inside her lady’s bedroom. “Milady -- ?” she squeaked, her body frozen in place.

Sansa laughed and produced a handful of raisins from her pocket. “I saved these for you, Alys,” she said to the girl.

Alys was still staring baldly at Sandor as she sidled over to Sansa, but she took the treat and gave thanks with a messy curtsey.

“There is more fruit in the kitchen, and a warm bed for you beside the fire. I would have you stay there for the night.”

Alys nodded, but concern was written across her pale face.

“Don’t worry, girl,” Sandor said. “I’ll protect your lady.”

Perhaps the jape went too far. Alys stepped in front of Sansa, her eyes narrowed and fists clenched and feet apart, ready to defend her lady from the intruder. 

Sansa placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Sandor Clegane is my fiercest, most loyal protector. He won’t hurt me.” Her eyes were on Sandor as she said the words, and Sandor thought of the night they’d never once discussed over the years, when wildfire lit up the skies.

In any case, Alys seemed satisfied. The maid grabbed her cloak from beside her pallet and left the room.

Sansa barred the door behind her, just as Sandor had taught her back in that other life, in King’s Landing, before it was a charred ruin. She returned to Sandor and stood before him, her eyes alight and her lips pressed into a thin line.

Sandor lifted his hand up to Sansa’s face. When she didn’t move, he dared to graze his fingers against her cheek. Her skin was cold as steel as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. 

She spoke softly. “After they married me to Tyrion Lannister, that night in his chambers, I undressed myself and lay beside him and obeyed him when he bade me not to pull the sheet over my naked body.” She opened her eyes and her lip curled up as she said, “I shall not shiver like that, exposed and alone, ever again.”

Sandor froze. “What do you want instead?” he asked quietly.

“Warmth,” she answered. She placed her palms on his chest.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her.

“Safety,” she added, scratching her fingernails into the fabric of his shirt as he dared to pull her close.

“Love,” she whispered as tilted his head down and pressed his lips to hers. 

“You already have that from me,” Sandor replied after he caught his breath.

“I know.” Sansa rested her head against Sandor's shoulder. “And you have it from me.”

He should should have been shouting for joy, but something in her words caused a plume of anger to rise up inside of him. “You might have told me sooner,” he grumbled. “Just in case the wildlings or White Walkers or dragons or starvation got to us.”

“It wasn’t the right time before. Now it is.” Her cheeks flushed pink in the firelight. “Now that spring isn’t just a dream.”

Sandor had nothing to say to that, so he kissed her again, and this time, when she broke away, he led her to the side of the bed.

“I mean to claim my reward, Sansa,” he rasped, her naked name sliding across his tongue more easily than he could have imagined.

Sansa pushed him away gently. “And I mean to stay warm.” She shucked her fur cloak off her shoulders and released the stays of her gown and shimmied out of her smallclothes. But to Sandor’s dismay, he hardly got more than a glimpse of her porcelain skin before she flipped herself under the covers. Her long hair lay on the pillow and she pulled the blankets up to her chin and she looked at him expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in! I’m freezing!” 

Sandor didn’t need to be told twice. “As you say.” He had never undressed so fast in his life. 

Sansa moved aside and Sandor flopped into bed next to her, and the wooden frame creaked under his weight. The sheets were indeed very cold, but Sansa was warm beside him. Sandor gathered her in his arms and pressed her body to his.

“Let’s stay like this for a moment,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Then she sighed and pulled her hair out from under his arm and lay her ear against his chest.

Sandor tried to enjoy the feeling of Sansa resting there beside him, but he was distracted by his cock pressing against her thigh. He couldn’t even remember the last time that he -- no, the Hound, using Kingsguard coin -- had been with a woman. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. The Hound had been dead for years.

Sansa dragged him away from those thoughts by pushing him back against the feather mattress. She pulled herself onto him, straddling one of his thighs. 

He squeezed his knee with her leg. “This isn’t quite the way to do it,” he murmured as he placed his hands on the small of her back.

“I know that,” she said waspishly. “I’m simply getting accustomed to the feeling.”

“So am I,” Sandor admitted, and he reached up to touch her cheek again. Her skin felt as smooth as ivory.

She must have liked the way his hand felt, for she pressed her breasts to his chest and moved her leg over the rest of the way. She was warm and wet against him. She shifted back and forth a few times and bit her lip and finally said, “Would you --” she glanced down, then back up at his face.

“Of course.” He reached between them and grabbed hold of himself and pressed the head of his cock to the right spot. “Are you -- ready?”

She gave him a crooked smile and a quick kiss. “I am now.”

Being inside of her felt exactly as he had imagined it, but better and worse. Sansa would hold her breath, then exhale in quiet, short, ragged bursts that might have been pleasure or discomfort. Sandor moved slowly, exquisitely and torturously slowly, until he couldn’t anymore and cried out and emptied himself into her, a new man.

It was all over very quickly. 

But apparently he wasn’t completely empty, for he blurted, “All of it was for you. Coming to Winterfell. Fighting the wights. Going to Deepwood Motte.” He paused for a breath, but then the words kept spilling out. “I loved you before spring. Before winter.” Even as he said it he wanted to take the words back. 

Sansa lay her head back down on his shoulder and calmly pulled the covers over both of them. “I know,” she said again. “And here we are.”

Sandor blinked and looked around, at the warm hearth, at the comfortable bed, at Sansa in his arms. The shame receded. “And here we are.” He smiled and closed his eyes.

*_*_*_*_*

[the end . . . of part 1]

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, they probably couldn’t have made it to Deepwood Motte and back in 2 weeks with fully laden handcarts, but I figured they already ate the last horse, and I thought this story would be better if everybody survived so they could have sex instead of just starving.
> 
> Thanks for reading, kudos, and comments!!!


End file.
